


needle and fabric

by trusteachother



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trusteachother/pseuds/trusteachother
Summary: “You're jealous,Jon Snow!”No one has called him that in years and the way her eyes widen makes him think of a little girl, long locks of auburn hair chasing her brothers through the halls, before it was improper and unladylike.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 254





	needle and fabric

**Author's Note:**

> A lighthearted piece to get back into writing and because I love the idea of Sansa making clothes for everyone! English is not my first language

The King in the North is as somber as ever when she enters his solar, but his whole demeanor changes. The shadows leave his eyes and he even gives her a small smile.

It had started because of him, this practice of hers she holds so close to her heart. She had made him a brand new cloak once, like the one her father used to wear, with the sole purpose of making the northern lords remember he was truly Ned Stark’s son. And, secretly, to make up for all those times she had not been nice to him. Never outright awful like she had been to Arya, but not necessarily _nice._

The boy had existed only in certain occasions, like when she could teach him something or correct a mistake. _You should say ‘that’s pretty’ whenever a lady tells you her name._ She had thought of him fondly after leaving Winterfell, when all the fires in King’s Landing couldn’t keep her warm, and after that, when she had to become a bastard, just like him, and Littlefinger bestowed unwanted kisses upon her lips.

He had praised her new dress so lovingly and then had been clearly taken aback by her gift Sansa knew she wasn't wasting her trust. 

She saw the importance in clothing. It was not only decorum or simply looking pretty but a weapon on its own. In the midst of war, she had worn dark fabric, black leather shaped like armour, her very own breastplate. It had kept her in place, tall and regal, when the cold hands of the dead and the wrath of dragons threatened to destroy everything she and Jon had built in such a short time.

When at last, a stable, inimaginable peace settled over the severed Kingdoms she returned to fine silk and intricate patterns, Stark grey and dark blue her favoured color combinations. She was still a player, scheme and intrigue a constant companion of power, she would never be truly free of that. She had accepted this as price worth paying for her home, for Arya and Jon in Winterfell, for Bran in the True North. She still had to entice the lords and ladies, befriend them, keep them both happy and wondering if she truly could turn into a wolf as the songs all claimed.

It wasn’t just the gowns, but they played their part, as much as her commands and her smiles.

It was a part of her she didn't have to find again, for it was never lost. Sansa loved spending hours working on her dresses, gloves and stockings, the sound of needle through fabric kept her sharp and gave her purpose. But when the last wolf was stitched and every ruffle seen to, she found she could indulge in a weakness that could never hurt.

Sewing clothes for the orphaned children the war had left behind were one of her many tasks, though she took particular pride in designing pieces for her most beloved ones. Riding gloves for Brienne, who seemed to be as good with a sword as she was with losing one glove or the other (the ones gifted by her mistress were never misplaced); winter blue stockings for Gilly, who had wanted to surprise Sam for his name day; a pair of trousers for Arya, who did not gape at her that time; some socks for Tormund, who never acknowledged her save to ask about Brienne or have a laugh at the expense of a very embarrassed Jon.

She liked to mend their clothes too, like she had mended the wounds of the injured during the Long Night, some more than once, some only to become ash on the funeral pyres.

That thought brings her back to a much different reality.

“I brought back your shirts,” she says, setting the garments on a chair.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She'll never tire of that lazy _‘z’_ a characteristic of Jon's northern brogue she's always expectant to catch.

He looks tired, his desk full of parchment proof of his hard work. She wants to ask him if something's wrong but she also knows he needs his space. Instead she says, “I was thinking about making you a new cloak. That one is overused.”

She gestures to the fur hanging from his chair, “I could embroider a dragon next to a wolf.”

He misses the joke and looks like she's insulted him.

“The cloak is fine, Sansa,” his voice is lower than before, “besides, you wouldn’t have the time.”

The meaning of his words is beyond her. She always makes sure to invest at least an hour of every day in her sewing. No matter which lord is visiting or which letter needs answering. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace.”

He tries not to react to the usage of his official title but Sansa can see the shift in his eyes. She always can. 

“Well, since you’re so busy with everyone else, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” he says, nonchalantly, and dropping his voice to a whisper he adds: “Socks for Tormund, _really_?”

She can’t help the girlish squeal that escapes her. She ought to be angry at herself.

“You're jealous, _Jon Snow!_ _''_

No one has called him that in years and the way her eyes widen makes him think of a little girl, long locks of auburn hair chasing her brothers through the halls, before it was improper and unladylike.

“I am not!” his wipes the frown from his face, his momentary fury dissipates, but she's seen it and still can in the flush of his cheeks.

“But you are!” she says like an announcement, leaning over his desk so he has to look up, “you are _so_ jealous. It’s not even about Tormund.”

He tries to stare her down but he can’t win at her game. He averts his gaze but doesn't miss her grinning from the corner of his eye.

“I must say it doesn't look good on you. Nor is it fair, to want your poor cousin to only make things for _you._ ”

She hears his intake of breath, readying his retort, but before he can say anything she adds: “Your only hope now is to _say it.”_

“Say what?”

A few years ago, she would never even think of talking to a man as openly and as defiantly. She would've bit her tongue off and swallowed it before she behaved in such a stupid way. She had to say it in riddles, in lies. She had to bewitch and remain in the shadows. Now, with her loose waves framing her heated cheeks and triumphant face, her sure look of victory, she's closer than ever to that little girl she had thought lost in those shadows.

“You know what.”

“So what if I'm jealous?” She can't help but snort in a most undignified way.

She remembers then her first wedding dress, Lannister gold, to parade the trapped wolf for everyone to see. After that, it had been greyish white, foreshadowing for dark times which seemed would stretch into eternity. Her third and final wedding, one where she had danced and laughed for once, dressed in deep blue like winter roses. It had been a simple gown, her most favourite piece of clothing yet.

“We are _married,_ you foolish King,” she feels her smile grow until it almost hurts, “and I love you. Only you. A pair of socks doesn’t mean anything. Only that I care for other people, as I very much should.”

He seems to be weighing her words, but stands from his seat and circles the desk, taking her hands in his. “And I love you, my Sansa.”

He kisses her nose and presses her close. “But I can't say I care much about anyone but you.”

“I won't be telling Arya that then.” She whispers playfully and kisses him back. His fingers graze the back of her neck and she abandons herself to the taste of him. He gives his kisses freely, pours all his adoration into them, always, and Sansa can't fathom ever being sated.

A thought comes to her then but Jon's hands are everywhere and she can't get at it until hours later, laying in bed, listening to the gentle breathing of her husband. It's a simple truth: 

— at last, after all, desolation is only a memory.


End file.
